Like the Sun, We Rise
by Grayson's Redoubt
Summary: Humans are stubborn bastards. You can shoot us, stab us, blow us up; we keep fucking fighting. Give a kid pottery and a rubber band, and you can bet he'll find a way to shoot you with it. Harbinger and the Reapers found out the hard way, but the galaxy is still being rebuilt. [Series of viginettes and one-shots revolving a destroy ending Shepard and her crew]
1. Hauntings

Commander Shepard. N7. Savior of the galaxy. _Hero_.

All those names and more she could hear echoing at the back of her head, and Shepard didn't believe she deserved many of those. Okay, sure, the Reapers were gone, and she was damn sure that was her influence, but at the same time, it hurt pretty badly to hear the Alliance... and much of the rest of the galaxy lauding her –and occasionally Kaidan, since it was no longer possible to keep the fact that the first human Spectres were pretty much married already- and seemingly ignoring the rest of her crew. Okay, so perhaps Tali was quite content keeping the spotlight off her as much as possible while she helped the Migrant Fleet and the geth rebuild Rannoch, but Shepard couldn't help but feel that the rest of the crew, from Traynor to Joker to Vega, deserved their turns in the spotlight.

Gingerly, the commander folded her arms, then leaned her head on them, slumping over a mostly neat desk. The apartment Anderson had given over to her made an ideal place to rest; it was open, there was room, and she wouldn't have to be alone.

Alone was bad, she'd decided, long ago. Alone meant she could hear Ashley, snarking away in the back of her mind about something Vega had done, or prodding her about the fact that Kaidan and Shepard had finally made moves at each other. Alone meant she could hear banshees screaming, under the traffic, and hands twitched for weapons she no longer carried. Alone meant she could hear Thessia's defenders, those brave asari, calling for help as they too are cut down- and all so Shepard could find some _relic_.

God above, it was bad enough she couldn't walk without limping, without running the risk of falling every other goddamn step, without feeling like her hip was going to tear itself apart again and even though the doctors had insisted on bed rest for a while longer, Shepard did not want to be stuck any longer than she had to. She felt weak, and she knew she wasn't as strong as she had been before. Shepard still had had a hard time feeling anything in her fingers, and she knew it was because the nerves were still mending. Her shoulders didn't flex as far as before, not yet, but she would be damned if she let herself atrophy further than she had during the hospitalization, during the physical therapy. If Shemer was anything, she was stubborn.

She should have _died_ before she reached the Citadel, and she attributed the fact she didn't to the fact that humans were fucking tenacious. They clung to life like nothing else out there—sure, everything fought to live, but there was just something...

A chime sounds in the background, and without thinking, Shepard counts the number. -_five, six, seven, eight_. Another part of her reminds her she should clean up, limp about the house and at least make herself halfway more presentable than the shorts and Kaidan's shirt, but sometimes, why _bother_? It was only going to be her crew, and she didn't mind them being around in any capacity. Shepard looked forward to the times when her crew –all of them- came around to visit. The galaxy didn't feel as empty, as shattered. She may not be captain of the Normandy anymore, but they had become her fire-forged family, and Shepard missed them like hell when they weren't around.

A door chime interrupted her reveries, and Shepard lifted her head up, blinking owlishly in the sudden light. When it rang again, the tiniest of smiles flitted across her features, and she dragged the back of a hand across her face. "Just a moment!"

Calloused palms provide leverage as Shepard heaved herself to her feet, pausing to gather her unsteady balance and wincing as she feels the mostly healed joints _shift_ under her weight. Bare feet find purchase on the wood floors, and Shepard eases her way down the stairs, to the front door. A perfunctory glance, and she leans gently on the switch, sending the door open with a _whoosh_.


	2. Daybreak

Day breaks softly through the window, filtered through half closed curtains and flickering with the shadows of skycars going by.

It's nice, Shepard decides, sleepily blinking. A warm bed was nothing new- not since the Lazarus project had let her loose and the SR-2 had become commonplace. But waking up in a warm bed, with Kaidan at her back and with the covers (thick, well sewn, _soft_) bundled about her body, that was new.

The systems hummed in the background, fans spinning silently and gentle breezes moving through grates set into the floor, unobtrusive.

She had forgotten what it was like to sleep in peacetime. Had forgotten what it was like to sleep in a house, and she wondered if she would wake up and forget she wasn't on the Normandy for a while longer. Shepard had barely been out of the hospital for, what, a week, maybe two? She'd grown accustomed to the hospital, to waking up in there, but only because it was sterile, whites and light blues and various shades of pastel. It didn't feel like the Normandy or even the Citadel apartment she had been in after the Collectors had been blown to hell.

Dimly, Shemer is aware of the twinges in her ribs, the dull ache where her body was still knitting after being mended without the Cerberus implants (and she felt all the cleaner for that, _safer_). The scars on her face were still there, the ones split when the implants had decided to act up occasionally. She supposed they were a reminder of times past (the Reapers were barely goddamn dead but Kaidan said it had been months since the Citadel had half exploded and the Reapers had died and oh god but _EDI_) and she wouldn't be wrong.

''_You'll be disoriented for a while. It's to be expected. You were in a medically induced coma for quite a while, Commander. Take it easy, let yourself readjust_.''

A snort, quiet but indelicate all the same. They'd certainly hit the mark about being disoriented, but... she felt displaced in time more than space. Sometimes she felt she were dreaming, that she would wake up on the Normandy, that her hardsuit would be laid out and ready to be equipped and only minutes to go before they needed to jump ship and carve another path through to survivors, through husks and cannibals and banshees oh _god_ the _screaming_ (echoes in the back of her mind telling her to whirl around because if she didn't she would get herself killed hardsuit or not) still haunted her.

Easing over to her back, she felt Kaidan stir. Blue eyes focused on the weathered features of the major's face, watching each little movement, letting him distract her from her own thoughts.

Shepard wondered how she got lucky enough to have survived the war right alongside Kaidan.


	3. It Doesn't Snow on the Citadel

It didn't snow on the Citadel. It didn't get cold, the wind didn't bite and the lakes didn't freeze. And so, Christmas snuck up quickly on Councilor Shepard and Spectre Alenko.

The first Christmas since the Reapers were defeated that the entire galaxy wasn't teetering on collapse, that the Citadel had been rebuilt, that the Council had been reformed. And as mired in politics as the galaxy was, Shepard had all intents to make this a Christmas to remember. Not only had they faced the worst the cycles had to offer, the races of the cycle came out all the stronger for it. The genophage was cured, the quarians and geth had made peace (and coinhabited Rannoch)...

There were more than enough reasons to celebrate this year.

On the Normandy, five or six years ago –it had been so long since they'd lost Williams, hadn't it- Christmas was a quiet affair, gifts exchanged between the human crew members and the very few aliens who grasped the concept of the holiday. The two years after that, well, Shepard was dead and there _was_ no Normandy. And when it rolled around again... the entire galaxy was at war. Give the galaxy a year or two to calm down, to rebuild, and once more the time of year rolls around. Only this time, it can be celebrated.

So, with Shepard out of the apartment all day, dealing with the Council, her crew over the years bargained for leave, found ways to the Citadel –sometimes, pulling rank to accomplish both... and the apartment slowly began to change from its normal neutral colors to more festive colors.

Tali could be seen humming around, balancing nondescript boxes in her arms and leaving them tucked in corners for later unpacking.

Garrus and James found themselves with armfuls of greenery, red and gold baubles tied to the wreaths.

Spirits knew where Wrex and Grunt found a tree, let alone got it into the apartment, because it stood tall enough to miss the ceiling by less than half a meter.

Miranda and Jack were found in the apartments somewhere- Miranda using delicate biotic movements to help Garrus hang greenery on the rails or untangle Tali's strings of lights- and Jack helping the two krogan ensure the tree was standing, securely potted and weighted, and wouldn't come down on anyone's unsuspecting heads (because as funny as it would be to see it fall on Miranda, it wouldn't be if it landed on Shepard... at least, not for long.).

Even Joker and the mobile platform one could only identify as EDI were alight with the cheer of the season.

Blue features peek through the front door, inquiring about a particular custom she was well aware of, a smile gracing her face. Liara had delayed her arrival in the hopes of avoiding whatever chaos would be unleashed with excited krogan, a less-graceful turian, and two powerful biotics, among many others, being loosed into a single apartment. Neatly wrapped (and some not so neatly) shapes of many kinds rested in a jury-rigged wagon (really more of a large laundry basket tied to a hover-dolly). And with the arrival of Liara also brought Glyph. Soft music chimed through the system, ancient melodies touching the air.  
In a matter of hours, the house seemed empty once again, the entirety of the decorators having tucked themselves away in the further reaches of the place Shepard called home. The railings were decorated with garlands and ornaments, lights wound about the edges of the staircases and lined the doorways. A small box was tucked in an unobtrusive corner, programmed by omnitool and routing all the lights through it. The tree itself was lit from the center, lights wound close to the trunk and ornaments placed further out along the branches, catching and reflecting, glinting in the now multidirectional lighting. A white tree skirt sparkled softly, what little could be seen under reflective paper or brown packaging.

A hurriedly whispered "They're coming!" and padded hop-steps heralded the return of both Shepard-Alenkos, and a red garbed quarian ducked into hiding with everyone else.

There's a moment of sudden, deafening silence as the door creaks open, preoccupied chatter from the two human Spectres ceasing as the lights and colors greeted them.

And then, only then, did the crew, one by one or in pairs, emerge, practically shouting the season's greetings.

"Merry Christmas, Shepard."

* * *

AN: This was partially inspired by our very own tree standing on our table right now, and partly by the music I finally broke out. Besides, I figure, Shepard would, if given the opportunity, celebrate something like Christmas in the company of her crew from the Normandy. Even if they do surprise her with it.


	4. Junk Scripts

AN: Been working on some simple .bat files at work to fix/edit permissions and change user accounts lately.

It's been a while since I wrote Shepard, too; though it's rather short.

* * *

"Really. This is the kind of- who the hell in _command_ let this goddamn script through?" Shepard muttered under her breath, stripping the code from one of the one click executables command had been pushing to omnitools for routine maintenance.

It would work… but whoever was choosing these was using an older language, and it wasn't efficient on the omnitool's onboard processor.

With Shepard still stuck on desk duty due to her injuries, this was all she could do. Even her Spectre status couldn't free her from doctor's orders.

Especially when they came from Chakwas.

Fingers dash across the keyboard, rewriting boolean code, changing the programming language, adding proper directories for junk cleanup, and adjusting the threshold for processor use so the script didn't kick maintenance in at the worst possible moment.

Adding a read only flag to hers, Shepard introduced the altered code to her omnitools, humming thoughtfully before pushing the new script back to command.

_Someone_ had to know what they were doing.


End file.
